Somewhere on the outskirts of the body
the gulls are trying their wings
on gusts of wind.
Somewhere the foghorn announces danger
at low tide and billows break
over hidden rocks
the way sleep breaks
over the submerged cliffs
of consciousness.
I spill into the world all anew,
carried forth by the amniotic gush
of half-dreamed words.
No newborns are ugly,
though some of them turn out more handsome
than others.
But who’s to profess judgment,
when we all are sinking lead, bait
for what lurks beneath,
when the line
we hold in our hands
leads directly to the beast?
The morning is yielding
its foggy pastels to brighter
tempera. Soon,
I will slip into familiar skin,
utter the names
of these almost forgotten
alleys of veins and arteries,
learn to inhabit again
the labyrinth of my body.
